The Notebook is Mightier Than the Magnifying Glass
by Sherlock Holmes Skittle
Summary: Hi! I'm Rhee Phan, and this story is Part One in my adventures. In this story, I meet Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and plenty of fellow Mary Sues as I try to figure out how to get out of A Scandal In Bohemia. Bonus Chapter added!
1. I Learn How To Be A Mary Sue

**The Notebook is Mightier than the Magnifying Glass**

**I Learn How To Be A Mary Sue**

**_Grand and General Disclaimer:_** _I don't own _anything_ Sherlock Holmes related except for this spiffy hat that I'm wearing and copies of _The Complete Sherlock Holmes _Volumes I and II. Other than that, it belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or whoever owns his stuff now that he's dead, 'cause it would be really bad if he were still alive, 130 years old, and reading all these fanfictions. Boy, wouldn't that be a sight to see. I can see him freaking out over the Mary Sue stories and whatever other stories having him falling in love. I would too, if I made Mr. Sherlock Holmes and deliberately wrote in that he can never fall in love. But whatever. Those are those authors' stories, and this one is mine. We all leave a piece of ourselves in whatever we write, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. _

_Hang on. What was I supposed to be typing again? Oh yeah, the disclaimer. If you recognize it, it doesn't belong to me. If it has a label on it that says 'This Belongs To: Arthur Conan Doyle. Please return to: 221b Baker Street,' it probably belongs to him. Likewise, if you happen to find a deerstalker hat lying around in this story, please pick it up and return it to me. It's mine, and I would so very much like to have it returned. But that's not likely because I like wearing it, and I don't want to lose it. Also, if you _do_ find a deerstalker hat, please do _not_ return it to Mr. Holmes because it was never his in the first place._

_Where was I? Oh, I don't want to keep repeating this disclaimer, so if you go to another chapter and no disclaimer's there, please don't panic because I haven't just suddenly gone and bought Sherlock Holmes. If I did, I would tell you, and then rejoice 'til kingdom come. But I'm broke, so I don't own any of him, nor will I. The absence of a disclaimer means that I figured you would remember reading this one, and didn't need to read yet another attempt at a witty and absurd disclaimer. If you bothered to read this far, I will say this as a closing, **I DON'T FREAKIN' OWN ANYTHING!** Thank you._

Ahh. . . now that we've gotten through with that, let me introduce myself. My name is Rhee Phan. I'm a junior at Franklin High by day, and an author by night, although 'night' doesn't say it quite right. How about, 'any time when I'm not at school or sleeping.' That puts it right. I'm sure many of you can relate or you wouldn't be writing fanfiction, now, would you.

Besides writing, I like to play the piano, read Sherlock Holmes stories, and practice archery. I'm also a fairly good singer should the need arise. I have short brown hair, grey eyes, and am about four foot eight. Yeah, I get reminded about how short I am a lot, but that doesn't matter because I like my height just the way it is.

But enough about me. You want to move on to the story, don't you. Well, my story started out quite simply. I was at home after a long day at school and work and I was very tired. It was about ten thirty at night and I was at this level of energy where I didn't want to sleep, but I was too tired to do anything. I tried to get to sleep, but I was either too hot or too cold or the bed was too uncomfortable or my head wasn't positioned on my pillow quite right. It was rather annoying. I eventually gave up trying to do anything productive and got out of bed. I share my room with my little sister, so the only light I could turn on was this bed-light of mine that doesn't shine much light around the room.

I found a notebook and pencil that were hiding under my bed (along with a big pink eraser, a worn out French-English dictionary, a cardboard pencil box filled with fools gold, a CD case for my pirated music, a DVD of _Young Sherlock Holmes_, five Reese's wrappers. . .), and I began to write. At first, I wasn't sure what I was trying to say, and my words were few. But then I got an idea. I decided to write about my favorite super-hero, Sherlock Holmes. I was really tired, so I didn't want to do something that required effort, like a mystery, so I started a typical, girl-goes-back-in-time-to-meet-Sherlock-Holmes, Mary Sue story with no plot outline. With me in it, of course. I thought it would be safe to write it since I wasn't going to post it here on FanFiction dot net.

(So what am I doing posting _this_ story?)

I started out writing about the girl (me), describing her and her plight, giving her a new name (Jamie Lee), and telling how she went back in time. "_It had been a windy day all day, and the night simply brought more. It was howling and shrieking outside, so she couldn't sleep._" As soon as I had finished this sentence, something strange happened. The wind, which had before been a slow breeze, suddenly picked up a thousand miles and tore open my windows! I quickly shut them so that my sister wouldn't wake.

"That was strange," I muttered, and I turned again to my writing. "_Jamie was reading a certain fateful novel that night, _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ vol. I._" All of a sudden, _my_ copy of that book flew out of its bookcase and hit me directly in my nose! Ow! It then opened itself up on my lap for me to read.

I'm an idiot, I have to admit. I really should have realized exactly what was going on and quit writing, but I didn't. I forged on ahead. "_She was reading a certain story, _A Scandal in Bohemia_, when suddenly the wind died down._" The wind outside became very silent. "_ 'I could get that picture for Mr. Holmes,' she whispered._" _My_ lips were forced to form the words, "I could get that picture for Mr. Holmes."

Could I?

I set down my notebook and got dressed. If I really could go back in time, I was going to go prepared, and I was _not_ going to go as a helpless, ill-equipped teenaged girl from the twenty-first century that knew nothing about Victorian London. I was going to go as a help_ful_, well-equipped teenaged girl from the twenty-first century that knew nothing about Victorian London except for Sherlock Holmes. What was I thinking?

I made sure to take my big black messenger-bag and load it with everything I might need. (I.e. history notes, history textbook, mace that I got from an old friend, Sherlock Holmes novels, a binder full of my music, a CD player with CDs, an extra mystery novel, and whatever other items I dumped out of my purse.)

When I felt ready, I went back to my notebook and began to write. "_The air seemed to bend around her. Images were curving and snapping like a flimsy plastic picture._" What a splendid sight it was watching my world fall to pieces. "_At some point, the world had twisted past recognition. With a burst of energy, everything was gone, including her._" I grabbed my notebook, threw my hands in front of my face, and, yes, I was gone with the burst of light and energy.

Maybe it would have been wise to specify _how_ I would appear in Victorian London. I appeared in the middle of a crowded street and right in front of a hansom! Of all luck! I tried to move, I really did, but it was too close, and by the time I did, it had hit me. But, it _didn't._ Either I passed through it or it passed through me, but it was as if one of us was a ghost. I came out on the other end unharmed, and the driver shouted back at me something that I think I should avoid writing down. I decided to get out of the road.

I really should have brought a map of London with me. Even if it was a modern one, I would have had _some_ idea of where I was. I got lost rather quickly. Of course, getting lost implies that you knew where you once were, and I had no idea where I was to begin with. Wonderful.

Now you're probably thinking that since now I've done the Mary Sue thing and gone back in time for no apparent reason, where does Sherlock Holmes come in?

By pure chance and _extremely_ good luck, I found 221b Baker Street. _Just kidding!_ I'm not _that_ lucky. I found Scotland Yard and Inspector Lestrade's office. I weaseled my way in and sat down in the chair in front of his desk to wait for his return. Apparently it was a lunch break.

I pulled a mirror out of my bag to see what had changed besides my surroundings. I looked in that mirror for a _very_ long time. My hair was shorter than it usually was; about chin length. I also had dark brown eyes instead of grey ones, and my glasses had long since disappeared. I had to touch my face to make sure that it was mine, because it wasn't; I was much prettier. I found, as I was walking in the streets, that I was much taller than usual, but I wasn't sure how _much_ taller. I finally came to a conclusion. "Wow," said I. "I've been Mary Sue-ified. _And_ I look like Alizée. That can't be good."

Five minutes later, Inspector Lestrade still hadn't returned, and I was just a little bored. I decided to search the room for something I could use. That's when I found a conveniently folded up map of London on his desk. I made sure that no one was coming, and then I slipped the map into my bag. No, I wasn't stealing, just. . .borrowing. Borrowing without permission for an undisclosed amount of time. Yeah. Borrowing.

After twenty minutes, I decided that waiting for the good Inspector wasn't worth anything besides a free map and I climbed out through the window and got back onto the streets of London. Using that free map, I charted out a course to find 221b Baker Street, just to see if it existed, and went on my way.


	2. I Learn What Kind Of Mess I'm In

**The Notebook is Mightier than the Magnifying Glass**

**I Learn What Kind Of Mess I'm In**

Walking to Baker Street was an unusual experience. As I was walking, I kept passing these girls that really didn't look like they belong. I mean, they all looked like me. Well, they all looked like they had somehow gotten from the twenty-first century to the nineteenth century, and were now wandering around aimlessly. Every single one of these girls was between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, and every single single guy that passed them did a double-take. _Mary-Sues_.

The closer I got to Baker Street, the more Sues I passed. Two streets before my destination, I realized there was a real problem. The streets were _packed_ with girls! No one could get through, not even the cabs. I wanted to take a quick detour, but by the time I realized I was in trouble, I was completely stuck in the crowd, so I followed it.

I don't know if many of those girls really knew what they were doing. Even if they had the darkest hair in the world, they all were really blonde. Some were tripping over their own feet and running into lampposts. At least when they were all stupid it made it easier to get to Baker Street.

When I finally found out I was on Baker Street, I began to question my sanity and everyone else's. The Mary Sues were much worse than I thought. I desperately needed to stop this insanity. There was an overturned cab not far from where I was, so I made my way over to it and climbed on top. Kneeling on top, I came up with a quick scheme to control the situation.

"Hey!" I shouted. "**_Hey!_**" No answer. Figures I wouldn't be loud enough. "What I wouldn't give for an extra-loud bullhorn." I looked in my bag, and found no bullhorn. Dang! Why did everything work for me before? Oh wait, I knew. I pulled out my notebook and wrote, "_Suddenly, an extra-loud bullhorn appeared in my bag out of nowhere._" When my new bullhorn appeared, I began my shouting match against the Sues again. "**_Hey!_**" Immediately, everyone shut up and covered their ears. Hm. Next time I'll go with regular strength. "Can everyone hear me? Everyone back there? Okay. Does anyone know _exactly_ how they got here? Besides magic."

I was greeted with thousands of sundry stories of girls falling asleep while reading a Sherlock Holmes story, girls walking through a mist and appearing in the nineteenth century, girls time-traveling with no control, and a whole lot more. "Okay, that's great," I said. "Does _anyone_ at all know how to get back home?" Every single girl looked nervously at the other, hoping someone would answer. "Anyone at all?" Nope. Figures. Now what?

"Excuse me." Someone tapped my heel. I turned and found an ordinary Victorian gentleman. He wasn't particularly singular, but I could have sworn I've seen that moustache before. "I think I know what to do. Could you hand me that bullhorn?" I handed it to him, and he climbed on top of the cab. "Ladies, I need you all to pay attention. I knew that there are a few of you in this crowd that are from London. Those few ladies need to lead all the other girls to Hyde Park. Hopefully there will be enough room there for you all."

"But we want to meet Sherlock Holmes!" one girl shouted. The other girls followed suit and started chanting, "SHERLOCK HOLMES! SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

I yanked my bullhorn back from the nice gentleman. "Shut up!" I shouted. "If you have read the cannon, you have already met him. If you have studied the stories, then you already know all there is to know about him. Now, could you please listen to what–" I turned to the gentleman. "What's your name?" I whispered.

"Dr. Watson."

"If you guys could listen to what Dr. Jackson has told you, everything will go a lot smoother. So, please start moving." Grudgingly, the girls began to move with the speed of cold molasses towards Hyde Park. _Yay_, I silently cheered. As the crowd cleared from around the cab, I began to climb down.

"You should go with them," Dr. Watson said.

"No way. I know I seem like another fan-girl, and I kind of am, but I didn't come to just be pushed around."

"Neither did they. But it doesn't matter anyway. They are incomplete characters and will soon disappear after they go past Baker Street. They don't have enough ingenuity in them to keep them alive past Baker Street. See?"

I did see. With the help of some newly acquired binoculars. Five blocks down, girls were dissipating into dust. "Cool. Hey, you seem to know a lot about Mary Sues. How long have you been doing this?"

"Ever since I wrote that blasted _A Study In Scarlet_!" Dr. Watson jumped off the top of the cab. "But I've always called them Helens because they're always the most beautiful women in the world." He took a look at his pocket-watch. "You'd best leave, ma'am."

"No way! I'm not turning into dust, thank you very much!" I exclaimed. "And for your information, I am not an incomplete character!"

He turned towards me with a very irritated expression. "Oh really," he challenged.

"Fine. I will go past Baker Street. I will explore London. And I will come back and knock on your door. I am not a Helen or a Mary Sue. I am an author, and I will prove it to you." With that, I turned on my heel and marched off. (Actually, it was more pushing Sues out of my way and moving faster than they were.)

* * *

I can't blame Dr. Watson for immediately thinking I was a Helen or a Mary Sue. Why should I be considered special and above the others. He was right. They all came to meet Mr. Holmes, not to be pushed around. Why should I have certain privileges they didn't have?

Hyde Park was a lovely place; exactly how I had imagined it down to the very details. I decided that when I got back home, I would visit the real one. Since I had plenty of time left in the day, I took a very long walk through the park. Despite the number of Sues that there had been before, there wasn't a single one left wandering Hyde Park. It was a comforting thought. The people I passed didn't ever look at me, which was convenient. I supposed I would have had to answer the questioning stares had I gotten any. Everything that I could want, I got. It was the best walk I had ever taken, considering the circumstances.

Along the way, I decided to stop, sit on a bench, and maybe take a quick nap. However, considering this was Victorian London and nobody slept on benches except the homeless, I decided to sit up and stare into space. I fixed my gaze on a man quite a ways away standing by a pool. He wasn't interesting, so I kept watching him.

After a time, he turned and looked directly at me. He was too far away to see clearly, but I just knew that his eyes were pure silver. The man cackled, I swear, and then he just. . ._changed_. His body withered and ebbed, then he turned darker. Like a tin can, he collapsed on himself, and was no more. I've read enough books to know that this was a bad thing. I stood up and started running, which was a good thing. Seconds later, there was an explosion, but no one felt it but me. I turned back and found that where the man had been standing, what looked like the shadow of a very tall man had taken its place.

I kept running, trying to keep the fifty second head start I had before it tried to overtake me. Unfortunately, two seconds later, I heard running footsteps right behind me. I took a quick look (not a smart idea!) and found he was right behind me. I found a burst of strength and ran faster.

When I hit the streets, I found that there were more of these shadows chasing me. I knew they were forcing me to go down streets of their choice because every time I wanted to make a turn, there would be another shadow to force me down another alley. Maybe I should have been a little brave and just gone past one of them, but I didn't. I unwittingly did their bidding.

I was running down the darkest of alleys and was quite lucky that I hadn't hit a dead end. Once in a while, I found another pathway that they hadn't planned on and made some sort of an escape. But they were much smarter than me. It wasn't long before I was running down one alley with one shadow on my tail and another popped up at the other end. I was caught in the middle and I let myself get caught. I had lost my breath a long ways back, and my heavy bag wasn't helping me any.

"What do you want?" I shouted.

They simply smiled at me with their silver, razor-sharp teeth. Their mouths were almost comical, being very tall and wide, but I suppose that made them all the more menacing since they could easily bite my neck off. "We only want to talk," one of them rasped as he stepped closer.

"Get away!" I swung my bag at his head, and trust me, my bag can be a weapon when I want it to be. The monster's head disappeared like a puff of smoke, but a second later, the smoke had formed his head again.

"We only want to talk," another hissed. (I know there aren't any 's's in that sentence, but I swear, he hissed!) The group started to surround me and push me towards the wall. It was at that point that I took a good look at them. Let's just say that I began to fear for my life at that moment.

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the alley saying, "Like on so many of London's days, the clouds decided to open up once more and send one of his storms through his streets." I recognized the voice as Dr. Watson's. As soon as he had finished his sentence, it did start to pour. The rain came down in buckets like I had never seen before. But what amazed me most was that the shadows hated the rain. The instant the water touched their skin, they began to disappear. The rain seemed to have an acid effect on their skin, if you can call that smoke stuff skin.

I didn't wait around to see what would happen to the shadows and ran toward wherever the voice had come from. Dr. Watson appeared from nowhere and without a word, ushered me into a cab. Only when the cab started moving did he dare say anything. "I haven't seen those beasts for a long time. Tell me everything, but do speak quietly."


	3. I Learn That I'm An Idiot

**The Notebook Is Mightier Than The Magnifying Glass**

**I Learn That I'm An Idiot**

I was cold. I was soaked to the skin. My bag weighed three tons. And I was being interrogated by Dr. Watson in a horse-drawn cab. No I hadn't thought to bring an umbrella, and no, I wasn't _that_ happy.

"How in the world did you figure out how to get to London?" Dr. Watson asked eagerly.

"I was deliberately writing a Mary Sue story and basically putting myself as the Sue. Once I started writing, the things just started coming true. So I, um, intentionally sent myself back in time." I grew quieter as a spoke, getting more and more embarrassed for my actions.

"_Idiot_," he muttered. "Have any more of the things you written come to pass besides your bullhorn and binoculars?"

"I haven't written anything else, so, I don't think so."

He looked at me like I really was an idiot, but decided to ignore that fact and continued. "Do you know who those beasts back there are? Of course not," he answered for me. "Those horrible beasts have no names, and seemingly, no weaknesses. However, they fear water, but rain most especially because it is like acid to their essences. They seem to emerge either from shadows or take over a human being's soul to become what they are. What's more is that no one but us have seen them. That is, you, I and Holmes have seen them."

"Why? Why us?"

"I know that they hunt us because we are the main characters of this world. You, on the other hand, are an Author. They want you simply for that."

"Because I can change the plot line of this world?"

"Precisely." He finally looked relieved that he was making a bit of sense to me.

"Like how you made the rain fall." I suddenly realized something. "Hey, you're an Author too!"

"No, I'm not, and that wasn't me!" he snapped. That was the end of the discussion. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, I never want to meet Sherlock Holmes. I may love to read about him, but I never ever want to meet him. For this exact reason, and probably because Dr. Watson didn't want him to meet me, he kept me as far away from 221b Baker Street as he could. Also, I think Mr. Holmes was up to something at that time and I couldn't interfere.

Dr. Watson dropped me off on a Serpentine Avenue some distance from his apartment. (I didn't know where I was because I was afraid to take out my map and have him recognize it.) He gave me quick instructions to not let anything of mine get stolen, stay put, and tell the skies to rain if I needed to. He also told me not to get involved in the fight.

It took me three minutes to realize that there was absolutely no one on the street and that he knew exactly what was going to happen. While I was waiting for nothing to happen, I went through my 'reference guide' to figure out which story had a planned riot outside. The only story that quickly came to my mind was _A Scandal in Bohemia_. It would make sense since that was what 'Jamie Lee' was reading before she was sent back in time to here. Man, I hate me. If I were me, I'd shoot me. Actually, I'd shoot a duck because I've never been duck hunting before.

But anyway, I was bored, and since I was sitting outside Irene Adler's house, I decided to come up with a plot to get that picture. I was armed with the knowledge that she had gone for a drive at five p.m., and amazingly, it was 4:45 p.m. I also knew she wouldn't be back until seven. On top of everything else, I knew exactly where the photograph was. So, I sat on the curb, pulled out a cross-stitching project, and settled in for the long ride.

What? So I cross-stitch. Big deal. Stop looking at me funny.

Fifteen minutes later, Irene Adler leaves the house for her ride. She looks at me funny, so I look at her funny.

Five minutes after that, I fell asleep.

One and a half hours after that, I wake up to a mob rushing over me. I figured that it would be Mr. Holmes' hired helpers, so I didn't panic. I also figured out that my needle was stuck to my forehead. Ow!

Twenty minutes later, I spotted a very kindly clergyman in the crowd. I put my cross-stitching away and prepared for the ride. It wasn't long before Irene Adler finished her ride, she was 'attacked' and Mr. Holmes nobly defended her while getting 'injured' in the process. I watched him as he was carried into Briony Lodge and taken to a comfortable sofa in the sitting-room.

Dr. Watson meandered over to the front of the house and began talking. "Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of 'Fire!' The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill--gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids--joined in a general shriek of 'Fire!'"

I recognized his recitation. It came directly from _A Scandal in Bohemia_. As everything obeyed his word, I realized exactly who he was. However, the event upstairs was coming to a close and Dr. Watson had to hurry away, so I couldn't confront him. Instead of following him, I pulled out my notebook and pen and walked right into the house.

I knew that I would be seen because I'm not that sneaky, so I wrote, "_No one saw Jamie as she entered the house. They were all miraculously downstairs or upstairs or in another room._" With that, I could freely walk around. I went directly to the bell-pull, slid back the sliding panel, and took out the photograph. I took one look at it and decided that someone had to either be an idiot or in on the loop to take such a picture and then send it back to Irene Adler. This thing was money, at least in this day considering the circumstances.

I tucked the photo in my notebook and turned to leave when I was confronted by a maid. "What are you doing here?" she asked sharply.

Uh oh. "One second," I told her. I opened my notebook and checked my sentences. Granted they weren't the best in the world, I had forgotten to leave myself an out. Enter. I entered, and now I was exiting. Oops. I quickly scrawled in another sentence, "_As Jamie was leaving, everyone was drawn away by a distraction behind the house._"

Immediately, there was something like an explosion, and the maid ran away. I slipped out unnoticed. Well, kind of. As soon as I got out the door, there was Dr. Watson waiting for me, and he did not look happy.

"What did you just do?" he demanded. "Never mind, I don't want to know because I probably _do_ know. Get in the cab." I quickly obeyed. Once we were settled in, he began. "You're probably wondering why I abandoned you on the curb so long ago. Of course you are. It was the only place besides 221b Baker Street that was under my control, therefore, _safe_."

"It's a good thing I didn't get the initiative to leave," I mumbled.

"But there are other matters that need to be addressed," he continued, ignoring me. "Such as, what are you planning to do with that photograph?"

Crud. I pulled it out and handed it to him. He snatched it without even looking at it. "You could destroy this entire story doing things as foolish as this! Was it worth it?" he asked.

"Not really, I just wanted to steal it."

He continued. "The second matter is that _A Scandal in Bohemia_ will be over by tomorrow morning. What are you planning to do to get out of here and not just end up like another Helen?"

That caught me by surprise. "I–I don't know. What happens if I can't leave?"

"You'll be stuck in perpetual repetitions of the same story. In other words, you will start this story over and relive it until you can find a way out."

"You know, I've seen that moustache before," I said. He seemed a little taken aback by my statement. I continued. "You also seem to know a lot about how this story and world works. On top of all that, you can control it. You aren't Dr. Watson. You're an Author."

"Of course I'm Dr. John Watson. Have you gone mad?"

"No! You did the exact same thing that I did, except you created your own book and characters. _You are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!_"


	4. I Learn How To Kill Sherlock Holmes

**The Notebook is Mightier Than The Magnifying Glass **

**I Learn How To Kill Sherlock Holmes**

For a minute, I thought that Mr. Doyle was going to continue denying that he was our favorite author. He definitely looked like he was searching for an answer or an argument, but gave up after silently fuming with nothing new to say. "Alright," he said. "I am Arthur Conan Doyle. You win. But mark my words, that will _not_ happen again." Whatever.

"So what's next?" I said, changing topics. "I can't very well meet your dear detective friend or sleep on the streets, can I. I could simply go without sleep, but when I'm tired, I tend to go nuts. Maybe I could get a hotel room or–"

"No," he cut in. "Those beasts are still out there and will take you or kill you."

"So the good Doctor _does_ care. What do you expect me to do?" I asked sarcastically.

"I expect you to stop being such an idiotic American and _think_ for once!" He was _not_ very happy with me at this moment in time. Maybe he was right. I _was_ kind of depending too much on him.

"Okay." I thought things through for a minute, which was hard for me. I don't like to think in constant streams of thought. In fact, I don't like to think things through before I jump into something. "I don't have a single idea of _why_ those things are after me, so the best thing for me to do right now is to learn from an expert. Dr.--er--Mr. Doyle. Why are they after me?"

"I told you. You're an author and they want you to change the plot line. Which, at this point, is impossible."

"But what do they want changed? Do they simply want to destroy the story and make it pointless, or do they want me to give or make them something. Are they trying to take over the world?" Ever noticed how villains _always_ want to do that? I mean, it's like somebody mis-defined Villain to mean, 'someone who wants to take over the world with an eccentrically, over-done, exaggerated plan.' But I digress.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"_You don't know?_" I practically shouted. "But you're the expert of this world!"

"I didn't create them!"

"But they've been after _you!_"

"That doesn't mean I _know_ what they're up to! They're from some other world and I know absolutely nothing about them. I'm only _lucky_ that I know that they hate water, which is why I stay in this blasted city. I could be traveling the world solving cases with the great Sherlock Holmes, but I have to stay here in this crime-ridden city because it constantly rains." Hm. I didn't know he hated London so much. Maybe he just wished for more.

For a few minutes, we didn't have anything to say, so I just watched the passing buildings. One of them caught my eye. "Did you tell the driver to stop at your office?" I asked.

"Yes," he said in a somewhat bored yet curious tone.

"Well, we just passed it. A long ways away."

Mr. Doyle was a little T.Oed. "Driver!" he called. "_Driver!_" Nobody answered. "What is wrong with the man?"

I didn't know, but I didn't like it. I stood up and looked out the window in hopes of seeing the driver. Where the driver should have been was a shadowy figure with grey eyes and a silver smile. I quickly pulled myself in so that he wouldn't see me, but I was too late. The horse began to pick up speed. "Make it rain!" I shouted to Mr. Doyle. "One of those things are driving!"

"Rain! Down-pour! Anything!" he said hastily. True to his not-so-eloquent words, a river of water came flowing down from the sky. It probably destroyed the shadow driver, but it did nothing but scare the horses, especially when it turned into an electrical storm. There was nothing for us to do but jump out. I grabbed my bag and jumped out first, then ran down the nearest alley I could find.

Running in this rain was very difficult. I still didn't have a coat, and running felt like swimming. I just knew that if I stayed in the rain for more than fifteen minutes, I was going to be very sick. I really should have packed an umbrella. "Are we close to Baker Street?" I yelled over the rain as we ran.

"Somewhat!" he shouted back. "What for?"

"You said that Mr. Holmes could see them too! What if they've reached him?"

"He can take care of himself! This is just another attack that we've survived before!"

"But this is different because I'm here! They know that I know less and that I'm weaker than you, and you being gentlemen will try to protect me!" He must have seen my logic because he started running faster towards wherever Baker Street was.

We turned down an alley that was going to lead right to Baker Street, when we spotted a tall, shadowy figure at the end. "Oh no," said I. "It can't be them."

"_Watson!_" it called out. "_Watson! Is that you?_"

"Holmes!" said Mr. Doyle in surprise. "What are you doing out here?"

I guess it couldn't be. Mr. Holmes is everything that I had ever pictured from the stories. Tall, piercing grey eyes, hawk-like nose, stained hands, smelled like smoke (except I couldn't smell anything in the rain except for rain), defined features, dark hair. . . What did you expect? He took one condescending look at me and asked Mr. Doyle, "Is this another one of those American Helens?"

I never did want to meet him either.

"Is there any possibility that those shadows could survive in the rain?" I pointedly asked Mr. Doyle with enough authority and arrogance in my voice to give Mr. Holmes the message that I would not be put down by anyone.

"She's an Author?" Mr. Holmes asked in astonishment. It worked.

"I doubt it," said Mr. Doyle before Mr. Holmes could add any sort of apology. Not like he would anyway.

Ironically, it was at that moment that we realized how wrong he was. Another shadow, like Mr. Holmes had been, started walking up the alleyway. "What's that?" I said. My voice was trembling with fear.

"I don't know, but there are two more over there," said Mr. Holmes pointing in the other direction.

More were coming. I counted ten. As they came closer, I could see grey eyes and silver smiles, but they were not the tall shadow-beasts. They were street thugs whose minds had been taken over by the shadows. They were impervious to water, but not in their strongest form. I guessed that if the human was injured or killed, the shadow would have no choice but to abandon the body and be destroyed by the rain.

"This is a fight that we cannot win," said Mr. Doyle.

"But we can fight to the death," replied Mr. Holmes.

I would have absolutely none of that. "Mr. Doyle, I have an idea," I told him. "Leave now, and let Dr. Watson be a character that you control from your paper."

"I can't just leave you behind!" he exclaimed.

"But it puts you in a position of strength! You can twist our fate and save us! Just go before they come!" Okay, so I was playing cheesy heroine who was going to sacrifice herself to the evil minions so that they could escape and rescue me later. There's nothing wrong with that. Right? _Right?_

Mr. Doyle gave me a nod, and then nothing happened. Dr. Watson was exactly the same, except he wasn't an author. The real one was up above, making it rain heavier. Thank you oh-so-powerful author for making this much more uncomfortable for me. Couldn't you give me a coat?

The men had surrounded us, leaving no openings to escape. It would have been really nice if we could split up and run, but they had forced us into a circle, except for we were more of a triangle. One of the men, who must have been the leader, stepped forward, inspecting us. His smile of approval when he looked at me, made me shiver even more. When he looked at Dr. Watson, however, he lost the smile and hissed in disgust. "This author has disappeared and left us an imposter!"

Dr. Watson smiled. "I'm no imposter. I'm a character," he said simply.

"No matter," he said irritably. "Take the girl and kill the others." He turned away, expecting his orders to be fulfilled, and left to get something.

I saw one of the men pull a gun out of nowhere and aim it at Mr. Holmes. I immediately stepped in front of him because I knew they couldn't risk killing me. "I swear if you even dare to hurt them, I _will_ kill myself!" Wow. I didn't think I could go Will Turner, but I guess I do have it in me. (_Oh yeah, I don't own Pirates of the Carribean, just like I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Don't get any ideas, I'm still broke!_)

I felt a hand on my shoulder. "It's alright, Miss Phan. Everything will be fine. Screw heroics and save yourself," Mr. Holmes said quietly. I don't know whether that was Mr. Holmes himself or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I didn't even wonder how Mr. Holmes knew how to use 21st century slang. I just trusted him. I swung my bag as hard as I could, which took out two men, and ran. I could hear behind me that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had also attacked the other men both to distract them and help me get away.

For a moment, I knew that I was going to get away. In those few seconds of energy I had to run down the alley, I knew for sure that I was going to escape and live. I reached the street just in time for a coach to pull right in front of me. No way was I going to trust another cab again, especially when the driver had grey eyes! I veered to the left in a right angle and ran straight towards nowhere. Unfortunately, two of the men were chasing me from the alley and caught up with me. I swung my bag again, but one caught it and tore my only weapon from me, and the other grabbed me, dragged me away kicking and screaming, and forced me into the coach.

The door was locked, so I pounded on the window, hoping to break it. The coach started moving, and as we passed the alley, I could see that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had lost the fight. Seconds later, I heard two gunshots.

A man in the coach covered my nose and mouth with a sweet-smelling cloth that made me very tired. The last thought I had before everything went black was, 'Oh no. _I just killed Sherlock Holmes!_'


	5. I Learn How Not To Run Away

**The Notebook Is Mightier Than The Magnifying Glass **

**I Learn How Not To Run Away  
**

I'm not sure exactly how long I was out, but it was long enough for my hair and clothes to have completely dried, which takes a _very_ long time. When I came to, I found myself lying on a very hard and uncomfortable bed. I also found I had a splitting headache, so I went back to sleep.

I woke up again with smelling salts in my nose and another splitting headache. Almost immediately, one of the shadow-things started interrogating me. "Where is Arthur Conan Doyle?"

I sat up and saw that there were three shadow-beasts in the room. One was guarding the door, one was sitting on my left, by the bed, interrogating me, and the third was standing in the corner to my right. "He's gone," I answered.

Wrong answer. The shadow-thing slapped my face, and I could feel blood running down from three gashes he left behind. "You told him to leave, didn't you!"

"Of course I did. I couldn't let you win. Right now, he'll be working to get me back and destroy you," I replied, trying to intimidate him.

"You're right." He was suddenly inspired, which couldn't be good. He motioned for the man in the corner to come, which he did. I was forced to stand up, then the thing wrapped its long and powerful arms around me, completely enveloping me in black haze and shadow. For a minute or two, I stayed in that state, completely unable to move, yet feeling something creep into my soul. Then, the haze faded away, but as I surveyed the room, I realized that there were only two of the shadow-things in the room. Believe me, I almost had a panic-attack, especially when I looked in the mirror.

* * *

Later, I was taken to a place somewhere in London. I couldn't tell where because I was blindfolded, but it felt like we were underground. Unfortunately, I was right. My captors, a man sitting at a desk reading, and I, were in a dark cellar. The man was reading something from a green binder that looked suspiciously like. . . 

"My history notes!" I marched right up to him, snatched my binder away, and I hit him as hard as I could with it. The man fell to the ground like a pathetic child, at my blow. The shadows, instead of punishing me, abandoned their prisoner to help him up. I should have run at that moment–I really could have gotten away–but I couldn't leave my bag behind. Where was it anyhow? It was by the desk, still filled, except for my history and chemistry notes.

"Get off!" the man said, pulling himself up and shoving the shadows away. (During this time, I slipped my binder into the bag and grabbed my chemistry notes.) "Idiots! Alright Miss Phan. Where is Doyle?"

"Haven't your goons told you anything? He's left." Again, my cockiness earned me a slap in the face, except it was more of a punch. I fell to the ground, and in the couple seconds I had, I slipped my notes into my bag. I made sure the strap was wrapped around my wrist as they roughly picked me up. "That hurt!" I cried. _Try to sound pathetic_, I was thinking. "What do you want from me?"

He chuckled. "I don't want a thing from you. I want what every villain wants: to rule the world. Unfortunately, my plan requires certain individuals that only exist as characters in books."

"You need Sherlock Holmes," I said, rather astonished.

"Moron, no! I need _Doyle_ because he is the only one who can _control_ the great detective. But then again, you're a fan-fiction author. You might work, _if_ you're a true author."

"I _am_ an author!" I protested.

"Then speak and prove it to me!" he shouted. I guess he didn't believe me.

There is a place inside of every author where we draw from to find our inspiration when we write. I think when Mr. Doyle was speaking and creating the story, he was tapping into that and writing without paper of pen. I'd never done that before, but there's always a first time for everything.

I tried to find it and believe in my words with all my heart. Maybe faith would be the power that saved my life. "The rusty water pipes," I began shakily, "suddenly gave way and broke, causing water to come down, as if it were raining from the ceiling."

The shadows started screaming as the water hit them. It worked! I swung my bag at the man again, knocking him to the ground, and I ran.

* * *

My map brought me to Baker Street which, once again, was covered with girls between the ages of fifteen and twenty-three. _Mary Sues!_ "Attention please!" a voice called over the tumult. _Dr. Watson?_ "Ladies! Be quiet please!" Standing on 221b Baker Street was Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes! So they weren't dead after all! (I was about to have myself a little party right then and there, but I decided that that wasn't such a good idea.) The story must have started over while I was asleep. Well, that explained the re-appearance of the Mary Sues. 

The girls had finally shut up. "Thank you," said Mr. Holmes. "Now, I know that this story is supposed to be what Dr. Watson has called _A Scandal In Bohemia_. However, a tragedy has occurred and I cannot let the story play out just yet." The silence that filled the street was eerie and solemn. "I need all of your help to find a young woman very much like you, who has been kidnaped and very likely killed. She is from the twenty-first century, is carrying a black messenger bag, is about sixteen years old, has short brown hair, is about five foot three, has dark brown eyes, plays the piano, loves to read, sprained her ankle about a week ago and still walks with a slight limp, is American . . ."

It was funny to listen to him describe me, especially since I hadn't bothered to tell him or you anything like that. What was more amazing was that we had only talked for a couple minutes. It was also funny to watch everyone else taking notes in their various ways. "If you see anyone of her description, please bring her back here," Dr. Watson finished. By now, I had gotten far enough into the crowd that I was right in front of 221b. The Mary Sues realized that Mr. Holmes was done and started to leave.

"I think I saw someone fitting her description at Hyde Park!" I shouted. It was so cool; everyone started running in that direction while I got out of the stampede. (Insert evil laugh here.) "Hello Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson! How goes it?" said I.

Their mix of emotions seemed to be something between disbelief, gratitude and fury. "How--"

"I can't stay for long," I interjected. "I met the mastermind villain and I know what he's up to. However, if I stay here, we'll play right into his hands."

"You're afraid they're following you," said Mr. Holmes. "Everyone knows where 221b Baker Street is. There's nothing to worry about."

"Well, it's not exactly _that_," I replied, "but I really must leave, or I'll put everyone in danger."

That's when Mr. Holmes realized what I was talking about. "Watson! _Her eyes are silver!_"

"And so is my smile. Don't you see? I'm carrying one of the shadows like I carry a dormant virus. At any time, it could take me over and kill you. I can't stay, and please don't follow me!" I then turned and walked away.

A moment later, Mr. Holmes called, "Miss Phan! Wait!" I could hear his running footsteps behind me. Why did he keep trying to stop me? "Wait!" he called again. I ignored him. Suddenly, he was right in front of me. I pushed past him, but he grabbed my wrist to keep me from going.

I don't know exactly what happened next, but everything seemed to go grey. My actions were not my own, and I could only watch in horror as I threw Mr. Holmes with super human strength, fifty feet away.

When I regained control, I ran to who knows where. I could believe it. I had just tried to kill Sherlock Holmes. Again.

* * *

When I couldn't run any more, I found a dark alley and hid there. I made sure I was as alone as I could be before I dared to open up. The tears, the fears, the anguish and pain that I had been hiding from the shadows finally bubbled up in hot tears and screams. I pounded and kicked the soot and rain covered walls until I had no strength left. Why did I try to hide everything from everyone? I just postponed all my emotions for a more convenient time. Here was my shock from Mr. Holmes' death, my terror when I was kidnaped, my fear of the shadow-creatures, my panic that I was going to be killed. 

I collapsed on the ground to rest a bit and to pull my pieces together. I had to plan out my next move. I had a feeling that no matter where I tried to hide, Mr. Holmes would find me. I had to find a place that I would never think of hiding. Or that he would never think that I would never think of hiding. Hm. The Opera House? I seem to remember reading a great fan-fiction of a girl who had hidden there. But I had no talent. I could go to Hyde Park, but if the Mary Sues were there, I was dead meat. 221b Baker Street would be _the_ most unlikely place for me to be, but that was just suicide. Scotland Yard had its possibilities. Yes, I think that would work. But I couldn't stay for long.

Once again, I was able to sneak into Inspector Lestrade's office unnoticed while he was out to lunch. He really should stop leaving it unlocked, at least while I'm around. His desk was messier than when I last came, like he had been looking for something. The map. I guess I felt a little guilty, so I pulled it out of my pocket, set it casually on his desk, and sat back down on a chair in the back of the office.

A moment later, three men burst into the office. One I assumed was Inspector Lestrade, the other two were Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. None of them noticed me at all.

"How do you expect me to find a girl that no one knows exists?" Lestrade said angrily. "What do you know about this Rhee Phan anyway?" Mr. Holmes went to Scotland Yard to find _me_? That must have taken a bit of humility. Or humiliation.

Mr. Holmes began to list out ways to find me. "She's an American visiting London. If she gets lost, which is likely, she'll ask directions from anyone but a constable. She carries around a black bag. If one of your men steals it, she's sure to follow."

"But what of her appearance, Holmes?" Lestrade was growing more and more annoyed.

"She's smart enough to have changed it already." Well, I am now. "She is in grave danger. Both she and I know it, but she doesn't know how to help herself."

"Finding her kidnapper would help," suggested Lestrade. I concur!

"He doesn't know where she is either." That's good news. I found an extra piece of paper and began to detail our villain. I quietly told the paper to draw his portrait. If Lestrade wanted to find him, I was going to help.

"Holmes, she's a runaway, not an abductee. Scotland Yard will not take your case. Besides, she's just another Helen!" True.

Mr. Holmes was enraged, but he didn't blow. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked out. As he passed me, he tipped is hat in respect. It was only until both he and Dr. Watson were out the door that they recognized me, but I had slammed the door and put a chair under the handle before they could get to me.

"Who are you?" said Lestrade. "You're--"

"Rhee Phan. Look, I only have a minute before he comes through the window. This is the man who had me kidnaped." I handed him my picture. "He's not very strong, but he's quite clever and may be hard to find. I was taken to–do you have a map? Oh, here it is." I 'found' his map on his desk. "I think I was taken. . . here." I pointed out an address for him, and he jotted it down.

There was a noise outside the window, like someone was moving a box. "Oh dear. Is there another door I can go through?" I kindly asked Inspector Lestrade.

"I should keep you here! Holmes isn't his usually self and the Doctor's a wreck."

Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Dang. Dr. Watson was still trying to get through the door, and that gave me an idea. I took out the chair, making sure to keep my weight against the door so Dr. Watson couldn't come in. Then all of a sudden, I released the door, sending him flying across the room. It really was quite comical, but I didn't waste any time laughing. I ran out, slamming the door closed after me. And for good measure, I put another chair under the handle.

As soon as I hit the street, I knew that I was being followed. It would make sense that Dr. Watson would tell Mr. Holmes where I went. I couldn't get a cab to stop for me, so I did the next desperate thing. I ran straight out into traffic, hoping that I could lose him. Unfortunately, I mis-underestimated Mr. Holmes' intelligence. I got on the other side of the road, and surprise! He was waiting for me.

"Miss Phan, you have no idea what you're up against," he began.

"Actually, I do," I interrupted.

"It would be better if you wouldn't fight this battle on your own. You are not the only person who has been infected by those shadows!"

"And where are they, Mr. Holmes? They're all dead or slaves to that mastermind guy. Sheesh, why can't I know what his name is or what those shadow things are called? This sucks. So if you don't mind, and even if you do, I'm going now. _Please_ don't follow me." For hopefully the last time, I turned my heel on him and walked away.

It seems Mr. Holmes is somewhat used to getting what he wants when he sees that it is pertinent or necessary. I was stopped by an icy hand gripping my neck and crushing it with inhuman strength, choking the life out of me. I looked into Mr. Holmes' eyes and found that it was not him in there. I should have known. His eyes were grey too.

The shadow thing in me must have panicked because I might have been dying. I lost control of myself again and simply watched as I pulled his hand away from my neck, almost breaking his wrist, and pushed him a ways off. When we came back to our senses, I think that we could both see that we were each afraid of each other and the fact that we had lost control of ourselves. In this sense, we were not so very different.

I began to cough, as is so characteristic of people who have almost been strangled. "So you've had one all along?" I croaked.

"Miss Phan, I'm--" he started.

"I know, Mr. Holmes." I straightened up, and my head began to swim visibly. "Oh dear."

"You're not going to faint, are you?" I guess Mary Sues pass out a lot. I would be sick of people fainting all over, especially if I was the one catching them all.

I shook my head, which, of course, caused it to swim even more. "Puke."


	6. I Learn How To Be A True Author

**The Notebook is Mightier Than The Magnifying Glass**

**I Learn How To Be A True Author**

Once I had gotten control of my senses and self again, I told Mr. Holmes that I needed to talk to Mr. Doyle as soon as possible. He was kind enough to flag a cab for us and we rode to 221b Baker Street in silence. (Mr. Doyle/Dr. Watson was a much more amiable person and a wonderful conversationalist.)

When I ride in a car, I love to just watch the scenery pass by the window. As I was watching everyone pass by, I couldn't help but see so many silver eyes, and every time I tried to turn away, I would see _his_ face again. (Sheesh! Why didn't I know his name? This was growing increasingly irritating.)

"Tamal," I said.

"What?" The confused detective looked up.

"I'm naming the villain Tamal. It means 'Dark Tree.'"

Mr. Holmes obviously thought that I had gone nuts, so he urged me on. "And what are his henchmen called?"

"Shadow-beasts-that-take-over-peoples'-souls-and-hate-water?"

" 'Shadow Beast' would work." I agreed. That was the extent of our conversation until we reached 221b Baker Street.

It was the first time I had ever been able to take a good look at the (in)famous place, and I must say, it was nothing spectacular. If it wasn't for the extraordinary individual that resided there, no one would notice it. I was taken inside quickly by Mrs. Hudson who was there at the door. Apparently, I looked rather ragged and worn out, and the gashes on my cheek weren't helping my case that I was perfectly fine. I eventually talked her out of getting me a blanket, a change of clothes (I guess mine were filthy), and a place to sleep. I could not, however, get out of getting some hot food (I didn't fight too hard on that one), having Dr. Watson look at my gashes, and her trying to wipe a bit of grime from my face.

I found myself sitting on a chair in the sitting room facing Mr. Holmes and Dr. Doyle. I had a cup of tea in my hands and a bandage on my face, but, hey, I was safe for the time. I guess it was time to get around to what I had come for. "Mr. Doyle," I said, "I think I know how to get rid of Tamal and the Shadow Beasts." (I just used my two new names in a sentence! Yay! No more vague references!)

"I can't just write him out of this story," he jumped in, trying to predict my thoughts. "He just keeps coming back."

"And he will continue to do so until he has what he wants: the perfect army, and the best people to operate it. He needs Mr. Holmes' mind, his brilliance. All that needs to happen is to make that impossible to get." Yeah, this was my plan, and I didn't have a clue as to how to put it into action. Mr. Holmes and Mr. Doyle saw that right away.

"Any suggestions?" they chorused.

"Well, what he needs is the author to control the character."

"Could anyone else, like those Helen writers?" Mr. Holmes prompted.

"Even if a fan-fiction writer uses this character, they must stay within the boundaries that have been set by the original author, or the character isn't considered genuine. So yes, they could control the character in question." I was thinking out loud, but it seemed to be helping. Mr. Holmes and Mr. Doyle were politely listening and prompting my thoughts.

"What if their interpretation isn't strong or genuine?" asked Mr. Doyle.

"Then it's a fake and will fall apart easily, like the Mary-Sues. You can see this in many fan-fictions that haven't been finished because their characters and plot fall apart at the seams. The boundaries are _very_ fine lines, and it is very rare to find a copied character that is almost _exactly_ like the original. Tamal needs the strongest character he can get. If only there was a way to make sure that. . . he can't use the real Sherlock Holmes." Genius hit me like a barrel of bricks, like that one guy that was using a rope and pulley to lower the barrel, but it pulled him up, and he hit it on the way. But I digress.

"You mean to re-write me," said Mr. Holmes, "and erase my existence."

"No," I replied. The bottom of the barrel broke, and I came crashing down on Inspiration. "No, no, no, I wouldn't want you to change, and nobody else would either. The change has to be unnoticeable. I know! You need an extra quirk to add to your already eccentric behavior. Mr. Doyle, we need paper, pens, a place to hide all this – and Mrs. Hudson, could you pretty please get me another cup of your wonderful tea? Thank you." I was on a roll.

"Ms. Phan," Mr. Holmes kindly interrupted. "If you're planning on hiding this from Tamal, how do you plan to hide it from the Shadow Beasts?"

The empty barrel came tumbling down on top of me. "Our silver eyes. Right. I, I could _probably_ write it out of me, but you're just going to have to sit out." I felt guilty saying this, and I don't know why. I guess it's because Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be part of and know everything. I started looking through my black bag to find my notebook, but something was wrong. "_Oh no_." I looked up at Mr. Doyle with a panicked look on my face.

"Your notebook is gone." They were simple words, but they held so much significance that it scared me even more. "Do you realize what that means, Ms. Phan?" Mr. Doyle said very slowly. Of course I didn't, and he knew that. "That notebook contains all the information about the character you play. That, in anyone's hands but yours, can control you."

"My writing was _horrible_ too!"

"That is not the issue!" Mr. Holmes snapped.

I was surprised by his anger. I wanted to snap back with some witty remark, but I'm not very quick when it comes to retorts. Give me five minutes, and I will have a scathing remark, but I decided not to make a fool of myself. I got up and said, "I'll be back in a minute." I passed Mrs. Hudson on my way down, taking the cup of tea she was bringing up.

"Where are you going?" she asked me with a bit of worry in her voice.

"Nowhere," I mumbled.

"Stay inside," she ordered, then left me to myself. I figured that part had come from her author, so I ignored her and went out to the front.

I didn't have my notebook, but I could still write without paper, like I had done before. I opened up my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. I felt a sticky blackness in my mind, confusing my words. "Don't do this to me. I never wanted silver eyes." But I still couldn't write.

_Rain_. I needed rain. But I couldn't speak. Could I sing? Yes. "_It's raining._" Pause. Down came the tears from the heavens. "_It's pouring._" The skies were obeying me, and a downpour was coming.

Time to improvise. "_The Shadow in me is leaving._" A black mist shrouded my vision, and I began to choke. The thing was coming out, but it certainly didn't want to when there was rain. "_It left my head and was killed by rain._" Now, I could see it on the street, writhing in pain. I was almost happy to see it there. "_And I'll be free forevermore._"

It was gone. I looked up and told the sky, "Stop raining. That's enough." Then, I turned on my heel and marched back inside. With that shadow gone, I could think better, and I knew exactly what I was going to do.

* * *

Maybe I didn't.

It had been three hours of throwing out ideas on paper, writing down ideas, burning ideas and testing ideas on Mr. Holmes to make sure they didn't noticeably affect him. It had been three hours of heated arguments and saucy insults, and we were both quite frustrated. Even after all this, we still hadn't quite gotten anywhere.

"Should we try this one?" asked a tired me, holding up our latest idea. Mr. Doyle's silence gave me the go-ahead. (Due to the fact that we still must keep these ideas a secret, I won't be telling you what's on the papers.)

Our paper went into effect, and it was rather humorous. "Good heavens, what's happened to Holmes?" exclaimed Mr. Doyle.

"He looks like William Gillette," I said. "Now he looks like Basil Rathbone. And now he looks like Jeremy Brett. Now he's Rupert Everett. And now he looks like Richard Roxburgh. And now–he's Sherlock Holmes." Mr. Doyle had burned our last paper. Dang, that was fun. I wonder what would have happened if he had started to become the radio show actors.

"We are getting nowhere," Mr. Doyle grumbled.

"Are you kidding?" I said to raise his spirits. "We now know how to turn Mr. Holmes into any actor that's ever portrayed him. Until you burned the paper." He only glared back at me. "Okay. Maybe there's a simple answer."

"For someone as complex as me?" Mr. Holmes called from another room. He didn't sound happy with his situation as a guinea pig.

I continued, ignoring him. "He's loyal to England. He's the perfect Victorian Gentleman. He always sees that justice is served. He expects everyone to uphold good standards. How in the world can I add on to that?"

"You can't," said Mr. Doyle. Oh, what a genius he is!

"No. The way Mr. Holmes is now, he wouldn't pledge his allegiance to Tamal. We don't need to change him at all."

"Then what have we been doing for the past three hours?" He wasn't happy either with this.

"We have to make sure that it stays that way. Mr. Doyle, you need to leave again, write down whatever will keep Mr. Holmes the way he is, lock it in a safe, and hope that nobody decides to pick the lock." It was the best idea I'd had in a while.

"What's to keep him from stealing these papers outside of the story?"

I didn't know, so Mr. Holmes gave it to us. "If he lived in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, he wouldn't have had to make the character Tamal and re-write the story."

"I thought he was and author like me," I responded.

"No, he is a nameless character created to be a puppet mouth for the real antagonist. However, you named him, and now Tamal is gaining his independence slowly but surely."

Oh dear. "Okay, how do we know this, and is this good or bad?" My only two questions.

Mr. Holmes sighed as if I should already know this. "A Shadow bird told me, and now that Tamal is freeing himself, he can gain strength." His answer was filled with bitterness, as if he was trying to get rid of an enemy, but found it impossible. It made sense since I couldn't get rid of the Shadow Beast inhabiting his body like I had mine. I bet that he resented it, especially since he doesn't deal with the supernatural.

"So it's a good thing, then? I mean, since it's not really a puppet anymore, Tamal can be killed, and not just be a vague presence. Plus he wouldn't be able to come back, not without the author's permission."

Mr. Holmes and Mr. Doyle looked at each other, silently debating whether to go along with the tenuous plans of a sixteen-year-old girl who had proved to be an idiot at times and had just wasted a lot of their time in the past couple days. A moment later, they relented. "It will have to work," said Mr. Holmes, "or there's no telling how bad future events will turn out."

Mr. Doyle left, leaving Dr. Watson in his place. "So what do we do now?" he asked.

My answer surprised even me. "We find Tamal and kill him before he gets too strong."

* * *

I didn't realize this until much, much later, but the three hours I had spent working with Mr. Doyle were not wasted. He had cleverly used that time to teach me techniques that I would need to know when battling our antagonist with words. To this day, I am very grateful for the time he spent insulting me when I was choosing to be difficult, and for giving me more insight into the world of writing.

But enough of this mushy gratitude stuff. Next Chapter!


	7. I Learn That I Like Back Doors

**The Notebook Is Mightier Than The Magnifying Glass**

**I Learn That I Like Back Doors**

I wasn't allowed to begin the hunt until the next morning. For some reason, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson wanted me to get some sleep before I ran out to go kill Tamal, plus it was probably better to hunt him in daylight. Of course, they were right, and Mrs. Hudson lent me some pj's and let me use a spare room on the ground floor. (I never knew there was a spare room down there, but giving it some thought and figuring out that there really shouldn't be a room there, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Doyle might have had something to do with the magic room. _Inhale!_)

It was a great opportunity to rest for a while and not worry about anything, but it was quite early to be thinking about sleep, even though it was growing dark.

I was in my borrowed room when there was a knock on the door. There was the sound of the door being opened and Mrs. Hudson letting in the visitor. The man went up the seventeen steps to the sitting room, and I came out to take a peek at him. He looked rich and he had the air of a royal. "Mrs. Hudson?" I called. "What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock."

It was the King of Bohemia, and the story was beginning to take off and go. This could prove a problem.

No one needed me at that time, so I went back and dug through my black bag for something to do. As I passed through my notes and homework, I felt a slight tinge of guilt for losing my notebook. After stabbing my hand on a pair of needlenose pliers (How did _they_ get in there?) I finally found my cross-stitching project and worked on that for about twenty minutes. After I heard His Majesty leave, I snatched the plastic bag with my needlework tools and ran upstairs to the sitting room to discuss what happened.

Dr. Watson was Mr. Doyle again, and he and Mr. Holmes were sitting in the armchairs. "The story's already ruined as it is. Why did the King of Bohemia come to continue it?" I burst out as soon as I got through the door.

"The minor characters will continue to play their parts with or without the main ones," Mr. Doyle answered. "Whether we keep the story accurate or not is entirely up to us."

"So what happens if _this_ repetition isn't right? Will changes show up at all in everyone else's printed copies?"

Mr. Doyle looked at me as if I was an idiot. "Of course. If you don't interfere in the next repetition, everything will be fine."

Next? _Next?_ I am _not_ staying for longer than I need to. "I have an idea," I said right before I ran downstairs to snatch my copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. Volume one. I came racing back up the stairs, opened the book up to "A Scandal in Bohemia," and set it in front of Mr. Doyle. "The story is as Dr. Watson tells it. Correct? According to the story, Dr. Watson writes it. Correct? For the story to be true, all he needs to do is write it how it needs to be. Correct?"

"I can't just copy something that hasn't happened yet," Mr. Doyle says through gritted teeth.

"You remember _me_ when you found me on the last go-around, therefore, it _has_ happened. If you don't want to copy, I will, but I am not staying here longer than I need to."

"But the pages are blank," he kindly informed me as if he'd won.

I growled, but handed him a pen and that foolscap paper. " 'To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. . .' "

"You _memorized _it?" Mr. Holmes said incredulously.

"For Debate; the Prose/Poetry event. If you don't write this now, you will later. I suggest that you keep writing."

* * *

I don't know how long it took to get the entire story on paper, but I was glad that Mr. Doyle and Mr. Holmes were quick scribes. I'd proof-read them tomorrow, though. We finished just before midnight, or at least it felt like that, and I was completely hoarse. Mrs. Hudson brought up some coffee and some warm milk for me because I don't drink coffee, and the three of us sat around the fire, they in the armchairs and me on the couch.

"Do you have a plan for tomorrow, Miss Phan?" Mr. Doyle asked. He knew I didn't. When I didn't answer, he continued. "To be rid of Tamal, and his author's influence in this world, Tamal must be killed for good."

No biggie. It would be just like killing off other characters in my stories. What could be so different about Tamal? But when I looked up to answer Mr. Holmes, I received _my_ answer. He was a character too, but he was essentially a person here. To kill Tamal without a thought would be murder in cold blood. I hadn't thought of that before. "Oh dear," I mumbled. "Maybe I could just get an anvil or piano to fall on him."

"Miss Phan, I bring this up because I want to reassure you that this is _not_ murder." Whew! That's a big relief. Now it's just manslaughter. "Tamal is a character created by imagination and words. Killing him will simply be putting an end to a character and a story." He paused to gather his thoughts. "Holmes and I agree that you do not have to take any responsibility in this task. Our antagonist's fight is with us, not you." They were trying to keep me out of it all.

In part, I agreed with him. When did I need to become involved with their demon? I was just an author-turned-Mary-Sue. But another part was screaming, _Tamal kidnaped, targeted, and even infected you with those Shadow Beasts! You have every right to seek revenge! Besides, you have to prove your strength to that--_ I quickly shut that part up before it got nastier. The last part of me was humbly saying, _You have the power to stop him. With great power--_ I also shut that part up because I didn't want to pay anything to Marvel Comics.

"This one may be," I replied, "but when he leaves for other stories, I will have to be there to stop him. He lives in a time later than 1930, possibly living even in my time. I have to stop him for good."

* * *

I woke up late the next morning to the smell of bread baking. I _love_ that smell! But I had to stay focused. With a few quick and quiet words, I got dressed in some new clothes and went out to find breakfast. (Actually first, I created quite a few costumes and dresses that I have always wanted to wear, tried those on, spun around and laughed a bit, then changed into better clothes. _Then_ I went to find breakfast.)

We ate as quickly as possible so that we could have as much time as we could to hunt down Tamal. Mr. Holmes didn't even want to eat, but we convinced him that we wouldn't be long and it would be best for him.

Mr. Holmes opened the door to step out onto the street, but stopped in mid-step and slammed the door. "Helens," he hissed in disgust.

Now _that_ was a problem. "They didn't see me, did they?" I asked warily.

The Mary Sues answered for us. The crowd began to roar in anger, and the door was getting such a beating, that I didn't know if it could hold for very long. "Let's use the back door," Mr. Doyle suggested.

"There's a back door?" I said as they ushered me to it.

"There is now." Works for me.

* * *

The streets of London were like they were normally, according to Mr. Holmes. In my view, they were crowded and smelly. I was _not_ going to be visiting London when I got back to the 21st century. "How are we going to find Tamal?" Mr. Doyle asked Mr. Holmes.

"We could ask a little Shadow bird," I replied, "or send him a message, or walk into an ambush, or make it rain, or launch some fireworks, or send him an e-mail, or--" I shut up when I realized that they were giving me a weird look.

"I believe that it would be best if we split up," said Mr. Holmes, as if I hadn't said a word. "The Beasts would rather single us out, which will make them easier to find. When they're found, then Tamal will be caught." Without waiting for any arguments, Mr. Holmes continued, giving out our instructions and directions to our search areas. If we were to spot something, we would signal to the others so that we wouldn't have to fight anyone on our own. Somehow, I had the sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't be notified of anything, especially since I noticed that I had no definite signal to work with.

But, whatever. I went on my merry way, of course not going in any specific direction because I had no idea where I was going. I was also starting to wish I hadn't given back my stolen map.

My random directions consistently took me through various alleyways, back streets, and any other place where I could easily be cornered. In one such place, I started to feel like I was being watched, so I got out of there as soon as I could. But the feeling wouldn't leave. I looked around, but there was absolutely no one around. "Hello?" I called, but I got no answer except for the hiss of dead wind. Or was it the hiss of a Shadow Beast?

I dared to go down another darker alley, and the feeling got stronger. _Do I turn back or not?_ _They _must_ be here_, I thought. Pity the idiot hero that takes over me. I kept walking, plus I called out again. "Hello? Shadow Beasts," I taunted. "I have something for Tamal, your master. Come out, come out wherever you are."

Just as I expected, from the shadows, the Shadow Beasts appeared, having taken over the place of drunks and lowlifes. They slowly cut off my escape routes, but I wasn't worried about getting away quite yet. I was more concerned with the evil in their eyes and grin. It had gotten stronger. I wouldn't be surprised if they decided to kill me, even if it was against Tamal's orders. Wait, did they even have orders whether to kill or spare me? I didn't want to find out the hard way.

I shifted my bag's strap a little higher on my shoulder, and muttered a few desperate words under my breath. I don't remember exactly what they were, but they went along the lines of, "The water that came from nowhere was strange, but angry. In an instant of rage, it became one of the most dangerous beasts of the river: The Flash Flood." I braced myself for the impact.

From the other end of the alley, the water came racing toward us and knocked us off our feet. We were carried away by the rapids through the narrow and dirty alley, hitting boxes, walls, and whatever else came in our way. I must say, it was a rather bumpy ride, and I would really not like to do that again anytime soon. The water dumped us out onto the street where it disappeared, leaving me and the Shadow Beasts in the middle of traffic.

I landed flat on my face, right in the path of an oncoming cab. If I could have moved, I would have, but the cab ran right over me. Strangely, this was like the last time I got hit, and I passed right through like I was a ghost. I guess I'm not allowed to be killed by background props and characters in this story. Cool. However, I didn't have anytime to do a happy dance or anything like that, so I jumped up to go running for Mr. Holmes and Mr. Doyle. As I was getting up, though, I used my right hand, and a bolt of pain went through my wrist. I must have broken it. No matter, I went running anyway.

They weren't hard at all to find since somehow they had found out about my little flood/signal, and came running after me. I found them sprinting down the sidewalk, and I kind of ran straight past them because I didn't recognize him. I only stopped because Mr. Holmes grabbed my _right _wrist to stop me. **_Ow!_**

"Did you find him?" said Mr. Holmes. "What was that flood back there? Where is Tamal?" Oh, he was eager to find his villain.

But I wasn't listening. I was going, "Ow! Ow! Ow! Leggo! Leggo! Let go! Ow ow ow ow ow!" It was only until he realized this that he loosened his grip. Then I focused on more important things. "I told the Shadow Beasts that we had something for Tamal! We have to go find our battleground!"


	8. I Learn That All Stories Have An End

**The Notebook Is Mightier Than The Magnifying Glass**

**I Learn That All Stories Have An End**

Mr. Holmes chose a park. I'm not sure which park it was, but it was big and there weren't many people there. He was pretty sure that Tamal would come soon for us, so we had to get our battle plans together. "When Tamal gets here," said Mr. Doyle while taking a look at my wrist, "I'll put up a wall to prevent any more Shadow Beasts from taking just anyone."

"Put a roof overhead to keep any climbers out," Mr. Holmes advised as he checked a revolver that he had taken from a coat pocket.

"And then what?" I asked through pain and gritted teeth.

"Get rid of any Shadow Beasts left inside and kill Tamal," Mr. Doyle answered. "Hold still, will you?"

"But how do we kill them when we haven't been able to before?" I continued. Giving it a moment of thought, I got it. "Oh, right. Using a human presence, they're invincible. On their own, they're weaker than mist. So how can they be forced to be alone?"

"That's your job. You stay as far away as you can, then put your plan into action." Mr. Holmes' plan sounded great. I couldn't do much with a broken wrist, could I. Right? _Right?_

The sky became darkened and the light of the sun was killed. We were left in eerie darkness, except for a flashlight I found in my bag. (I love my big black bag.) I handed it to Mr. Doyle so we could watch the army of Shadow Beasts that were slowly marching towards us.

Searching the crowd, I tried to find the arrogant, yet weak man that had had me kidnaped. Instead, I found someone else. It took me a moment to recognize him and realize that he had changed, and he wasn't going to go down with just a whack on the head. He had grown taller, darker, and stronger, plus his eyes were glowing with a red light that wasn't there before. His independence was evident in every one of his steps, his words, and his actions. He had to be eliminated before he got worse.

"I see Tamal!" I told Mr. Doyle. "Make the wall now!"

The earth began to shake, and I was knocked off my feet as a giant, thorn covered wall grew out of the ground. I have to say, either Mr. Doyle or Mr. Holmes has a little flare for the dramatic. I wonder who was responsible. The wall completely surrounded a portion of the army of Shadow Beasts, Tamal, Mr. Doyle, Mr. Holmes, and me. We were completely trapped. Once the wall had reached its complete height, it groaned and forced out a steel roof overhead which clanged shut, announcing the beginning of our fight to the death.

A hush fell on the crowd, apparently ordered by Tamal, and I watched him step out from his safe refuge behind his slaves and approach us. I would have thought that Mr. Holmes could dwarf any man, but as Tamal came closer, I could see that maybe there might be a little competition.

Tamal stopped five feet in front of our little trio. "Good morning Mr. Holmes, Mr. Doyle," he said quite politely, although deliberately ignoring me. "I was told that you have something for me. I do hope it's a surrender."

"Not quite," I said as I stood up. Tamal finally decided to look down at me. "There is one little condition, howev– good heavens!" I had looked over at one of the Shadow Beasts, and found that it looked like it was having a cross between heart attack and an asthma attack. A few seconds later, the shadow dissolved like mist and left behind a disheveled gentleman lying face down on the ground. I was about to run to the man to help him, or at least see if he was still alive, but Mr. Holmes stopped me with a sharp look.

Tamal sighed as if his dying soldier was nothing but an annoyance. "Humans can't stand the stress of symbiosis, and their energy disintegrates at an absurdly quick rate. But you were saying?"

"Oh yes. One condition." _Make something up! Quickly! You stupid moron, get rid of the Shadow Beasts! Do something!_ I hate that annoying voice that chooses to pipe in at the worst times. But it was right. I just couldn't think of anything after being given this new little bit of information.

"Release them, Tamal," Mr. Doyle piped up. "Release them all."

Tamal laughed. "Release who, old man?" Hang on one second! Mr. Doyle is not old! Sure he lived in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, but right now, he is _not_ old.

I got a sudden flash of inspiration: ask Mr. Holmes what I should do. Brilliant, right? "Mr. Holmes?" I started.

"He's had his army for too long," he answered without hesitation. "If you could just get the process to start a little quicker, everything should be fine." Wow. It would be great if he could use his mind-reading skills on my grandma.

It's an unwritten law of writing, I guess, that you cannot mess with other people's characters and writing or else everyone will hate you. Remember how Mr. Doyle was mad at me for messing with his story when I took the picture? Same deal. I had to find a way to get the Shadow Beasts to leave without 'writing.' "What if I used the sprinkler system?"

"What are you talking about? Doyle didn't write these walls in," Mr. Holmes so kindly told me.

Uh oh. That meant Tamal did. He put in a ceiling so that no rain could come in. Clever, but maybe I could make a minor alteration to the ground. I muttered a few words, then turned around and picked up a metal stick with a perpendicular handle and prongs on the other end, from the ground. Perfect.

"What is that?" Tamal asked me as he looked suspiciously at my new tool.

"This, gentlemen, is an Anachronism." With that, I stuck the prongs into a small hole in the ground, and turned. There was the sound of familiar cracks of water being pumped and pressurized inside of pipes, then the sound of rain. Voila! My new sprinkler system. And if you're wondering what makes sprinklers sound like rain when they actually sound like high pitched whining, I would invite you to listen to the screaming, shouting, and agonized moaning and groaning from the Shadow Beasts being forced to leave their already-weakened hosts.

The Shadow Beasts rose up to the steel-covered sky in a haze of grey, black and silver, leaving behind various men and women from their various stations in life. I think I might have even seen Irene Adler. On second thought, maybe not. But either way, the shadows just disappeared, leaving us for a better existence. I wonder where they went. Oh well. We still had one minor problem to deal with: a seriously ticked off Tamal.

Tamal seemed to grow bigger, and out of nowhere, he had unsheathed a couple of katanas. I couldn't help but think that not only did he look like a villain that probably belonged on Power Rangers or Yu-Gi-Oh (neither of which I own because I wouldn't be caught dead watching them), but this was really not the kind of situation Mr. Holmes should be caught in. He should be battling it out with brains instead of brawn.

Just then, as Tamal started to charge like the running of the bulls, the world began to fade. It was as if the world was a watercolor painting that was being soaked, and the colors were letting go. Then, the canvas went whiter than snow. The only color I could see came from Mr. Holmes looking rather confused, Mr. Doyle looking rather smug, and Tamal looking rather tall and amused since he was right in front of me, which I hadn't noticed, and he had just thrust a katana through my heart. Strangely enough, I didn't hurt. Much.

"**Ow!**" I screamed.

Mr. Holmes looked very angry at Tamal, but Mr. Doyle looked quite relaxed and lofty. "Do you know what this place is?" he asked in his knowing way.

Tamal spun around to face him, leaving the katana in my chest. "What did you do?"

"This place is where there is no plot, no purpose, no time, and no feeling. There is no life, there is no death, and there is no pain. There is also no way out, save for one." Mr. Doyle was becoming more cocky, and it annoyed me.

"So I'm not going to die?" I asked, pointing at the katana.

"Not here."

"Okay. Mr. Holmes, could I get a bit of help?" He came over, placed one hand on my shoulder, grabbed the handle with the other one, and yanked the sword out. "Thanks."

"What do we do to get out, Doyle?" Tamal asked, pointedly ignoring me. Again.

"We play a game of riddles," he answered.

"Can't we play chess?" I quickly asked. I hate riddles. I'm terrible at them.

"There's no chess board, and all we have to play with are riddles. So if you're not smart enough to play, could you please sit down and be quiet?"

"I am not stupid!" I shouted. "All the time," I quietly added. But I crossed my legs and sat down anyway to wait out the oncoming tirade of puzzles that were sure to go way over my head.

* * *

Since there was no time, I didn't have to wait long. Of course, since there was no time, I waited for forever. I can't tell if I was completely occupied with or completely bored of the entire game. I have absolutely no idea how long I waited, but they finally got to the point where they were repeating previous riddles. I put up with that for a time, but then it got worse. 

Tamal got desperate and asked, "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"To get to the other side!" I shouted. Surprise, I was right. Then it was my turn to ask, and they were not going to take away my moment. "Why did the Zigatrot III cross the road?" I know, it's really dumb, but work with me here.

"To get to the other side," answered an obviously bored Tamal.

"Wrong!" I shouted, which was actually true. My brother made this one up, therefore, I have to use the real answer. "There's no such thing as a Zigatrot III!"

"Then what do you call that?" Tamal pointed to a short little robot that was coming our way. On its forehead was the word 'Zigatrot' in bright pink paint.

"That's a Zigatrot I, moron. Mr. Holmes, can I borrow that sword. Thanks." I took it and swung as hard as I could at Tamal, nearly decapitating him. He healed very quickly, but hey, that felt good!

The white began to darken, then fill with color. Our world was returning, and Tamal wasn't going to go back with it. I've always wanted to see a picture being painted, from the white canvas to the colorful picture, but I guess that this would just have to suffice.

The next thing I knew, I was facing Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, and there was a deep pain in my chest where I had been stabbed. I looked down, and there was the wound that shouldn't have been left behind. The blood began to pour and they caught me as I began to stagger.

"I don't understand," said Mr. Doyle. "Nothing happened. That was a place where no plot could take place. This shouldn't have happened."

With my right hand, I caught some of the blood before they laid me down on a nearby bench. My sight went hazy, and my right ear roared while my left ear rang. (I can be a very indecisive person.) But even in my hazy state, I could see that my blood was changing into something white. It was spherical, I think, like a crystal ball that fit nicely into my hand.

I looked down at my bloody chest, and found that my wound was starting to heal and I wasn't losing anymore blood. My sight was clearing and I was starting to hear the words that Mr. Holmes was saying to me, although, I don't think I caught the meanings of any of them. When I looked closer at the sphere in my hand, I could see Tamal trying to pound his way out, to no avail, so I shook it like a snow globe. I wouldn't advise doing that.

At some point I started _listening_ to what Mr. Holmes was saying. Something about now needing to get rid of some Helens. I might have suggested a bug bomb, but I don't think he bought that.

"It seems Tamal's story is over," said Mr. Doyle.

"Not quite," I answered. I pointed my finger at the sphere and said, "I, Rhee Phan, hereby dub thee The Mazarin Stone. In thee, you will contain one Tamal, and an infinite number of Mary-Sues, Helens, and fan girls that have entered and will enter this world." The stone then began to get white hot, so I handed it to Mr. Doyle, who promptly gave it to Mr. Holmes, who then threw it on the ground. After a quick blame game, we looked down at the smouldering sphere to see that it had turned into a very nice Mazarin Stone.

"Now _that_ is the end of Tamal."

"Don't jump to conclusions," said Mr. Holmes. He picked it up, pulled a pen out of a pocket, then wrote, '_THE END_,' on it. "Now it is the end."

"I was going to do that," I whined. Oh well. I got a nice katana out of the whole deal, even if it was covered in my blood. _Ewwww..._

My two friends made sure that I was perfectly fine before I stood up, or even sat up. My wound didn't instantly heal, but it did take about ten minutes before I could stand up without falling over. Then we had to work on walking. I have to say, I think that they genuinely cared.

"Will you be going home now?" Mr. Holmes asked. He knew I was.

"I belong in a world of reality where I can be a real hero. Besides, I have work to do." _I'll leave in a shower of light and magic and one last 'The End,' and I promise, I will return_, I thought. _I still need help. But there is one thing I can do for you. When I touch you, Mr. Holmes, the Shadow Beast that refused to leave you will come to me._ "Thank you very much Mr. Doyle and Dr. Watson. Both of you." I shook his hand, and I was greeted with a real smile. "I couldn't have gone anywhere without you." Then I moved to Mr. Holmes. "And I thank you, Mr. Holmes. It was an honor to meet you and to work with you." It was like an electric shock when I shook his hand, and a spasm of pain shot through my wrist. I spotted something shadowy move from his hand to mine. I hoped that he missed it.

"I'm sorry," he said as he released my pained hand. "You're welcome to come back if you need help again."

"I'm sure I'll be back." I turned away and found my shower of light and magic. "I didn't know you had such deep blue eyes."

Just as I stepped forward, Mr. Holmes realized what I had done. "Miss Phan, wait!" But I was gone.

* * *

My room looked exactly the same as when I left. My big black bag was thrown into its usual corner, and I got dressed for bed. My clothes were unexplainably dirty and my shirt was quite bloody, but fire hides all. Right? My wrist was still sprained and my eyes were silver; these things I couldn't hide at all. One last check in the mirror told me I had changed back into who I was before I left. Actually, I had to compare myself with a photo. 

I slid my katana underneath the bed, right next with all the other afore mentioned junk. It wasn't a worthy place for it, but once I figured out a way to explain _that_, I would hang it on my wall.

There was a stillness in the air that made me feel quite at peace, but there was a tempest raging somewhere, and I still had to play hero. I had to find out where Tamal's master would strike next, but I'm a terrible procrastinator. I got in bed, turned out my bed light, and quickly went to sleep. _I'll do it tomorrow._

* * *

_ -Rhee Phan-_  



	9. Bonus: Out of Sorts

**Out of the Woods**

**Out of Sorts (An Out-take from just before Chapter Seven)**

The smoking was bad enough. I absolutely hate the smell of smoke, and when Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson wanted to smoke, I had no place to stop them since it was their flat and their rules. Whether they decided to follow the standards of decency of their time or not was completely up to them, so I was never asked if I minded if they smoked. Had they asked, I would have said no, and they would have smoked anyway and all parties would have wasted their breaths.

Anyway, as I was saying, the smoking was bad enough. After a couple minutes of politely ignoring the grey fumes of circling my head and cutting off my air supply, I decided that I would retire for the night. I thanked the two for their generosity and the tea and headed off to bed. Wherever that was.

As I left the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson was there to meet me with a smile that said she wasn't completely herself. Mr. Doyle was probably heavily influencing her actions. "I've prepared a room for you in the guest room downstairs."

"Oh. I didn't know there was one down there."

"There is now. I've left a nightgown on the bed for you."

"Oh. Thank you. Um, good night," creepy, stalker version of Mrs. Hudson. I liked her better when she wasn't acting as Mr. Doyle's puppet. I smiled and quickly walked downstairs to my new room.

It was a nice, dark, typical Victorian bedroom, although 'typical' may not be the right word for it, seeing as how this was time travel and all. The bed was a plain, twin-sized bed, nothing fancy or overdone, with white sheets and a blue comforter that would do the job without being decorative. In one corner was a mahogany wardrobe which, when I investigated, I found nothing but sparse, spare clothes in the wrong size for me. Off to one side was a sink that probably wouldn't have been in a regular Victorian bedroom. For one, it was modern. And it had a toothbrush (new) and toothpaste waiting, with Dove soap on the right. How nice. The washcloth and towels looked old-fashioned at least.

After cleaning up a bit and brushing my teeth, I slipped on the distinctly Victorian nightgown I found and climbed into bed. It was one of the most comfortable beds I had ever used and almost fell asleep instantly.

Almost.

There was one problem. I could deal with Mr. Holmes' smoking just by leaving, but violin was a problem. Why in the world did he have to pick up that infernal thing in the middle of the night and begin playing tuneless screechings loud enough to keep _me_ up down here? I turned over and covered my head with my pillow to try to get some sleep. It also did wonders with muffling my screaming.

After twenty minutes of trying to ignore the man, I gave up, got out of bed, found a decent weapon, and left the room with the intent to kill. I didn't get far before I ran into Dr. Watson trying to escape the noise as well. "Oh, Ms. Phan," he said. "Is Holmes keeping you up?"

I nodded. "You too? You know, I think we need to pay him back."

He eyed the large, blunt object in my hand. "I hardly think beating the tar out of him will do the trick."

"Fine." I dropped the baseball bat. "I have a thought, though. Have you ever short-sheeted someone?"

"What's that?"

"I'll show you. Is there a way to sneak into his bedroom without him knowing?"

He gave the question some very serious thought, like he was debating whether to retaliate against something he could deal with or ignore the ranting of an immature girl. "The window might work. We'd have to be quiet though." Or maybe he was plotting just as quickly as I was.

We quietly ran outside and found a ladder. Without making too much noise, we brought it around to the back of the flat and set it down gently against the brick wall. It was quite the task, but we succeeded. I climbed up first while Dr. Watson held the ladder steady. The window, much to my dismay, was shut. "I can't open it!" I holler-whispered down to him.

"Are you sure it's not locked?"

I wiggled it a bit and was able to fit my fingers under the window. "I think I got it!" Just a bit more fiddling and I slid the entire thing up in a bit of a cheer. We were in.

I scrambled inside and went to work, stripping Mr. Holmes' bed of its blankets and bedclothes (which in Britain means 'the blankets on the bed.' Just something I learned from the Mary Russell books). Then, I took the sheet and pulled it all the way up, past the head of the bed, to tuck underneath the mattress. Dr. Watson had climbed in by now and was helping me tuck it in to look like the fitted sheet underneath. Then, we took the bottom of the sheet and folded it up to the head and smoothed it down so now it was half as big and created a nice pocket. And for someone as tall as Mr. Holmes, this would_ really_ be uncomfortable.

While Dr. Watson arranged the bedclothes to their previous state of Mrs. Hudson Perfection, I searched the room for something more. "There has to be more that we can do to him, for all the pain his violin-playing and gun-shooting and tobacco-smoking has caused."

"Here." He handed me a pile of striped clothes that could only have been a set of pajamas, and a needle with a spool of thread. "Sew his buttonholes closed. I'll fill his slippers with various hard and sharp objects."

I got to work again, whipstitching the holes closed. "You better hurry. He'll suspect something if you don't show up with tea or something."

Dr. Watson returned the booby-trapped slippers to their proper spot and went back out the window, leaving me to my fun. Well, fun doesn't quite cut it. Mr. Holmes' violin was even louder and more annoying up here than downstairs, but that only fueled my temper. As soon as I was done with his pajamas, I put them away and looked around for more stuff to do.

The problem with the Victorian Era is that they just don't have the materials to make some good pranks. But that wouldn't stop me. A pen, a paper, and a mischievous mind would help.

One ultra-loud tornado-alarm-sounding alarm clock, one dressing gown soaking in the bathtub, one bar of soap hidden, one pillowcase filled with books wrapped in a thin blanket, three pocket watches set ahead two hours, and one small radio hidden that constantly and softly played mariachi music later, the violin stopped. Time was up. I grabbed any tell-tale materials and ran for it. I slipped out of the window, closed it, and climbed down the rickety ladder.

I saw the light turn on in his room, and I knew I had to hide the ladder. Since I was unable to carry it away without drawing attention to myself, I wrote it away, hoped that Dr. Watson wouldn't need it again, and ran back inside to my room. I almost ran Mrs. Hudson over, but she was good humored about it when I told her that Mr. Holmes was in for a bit of a surprise. "Just don't leave me a mess for the morning, please," was her only repercussion.

That night, I fell asleep to the sweet sounds of Mr. Holmes shouting at Watson to investigate this strange sound of trumpets and guitars. "It's definitely South American in origin," he concluded. Then he was shouting at Watson to investigate who had soaked his only clean dressing gown and why, but Dr. Watson could only think that there might have been a stain. Then he sent him away, thinking that things couldn't be worse. Then the most blissful of all: a succession of shouts and growls of frustration, first as he could not button his pajamas, then as he had to pull out the extra thread, then as he put on his slippers and emitted a creative string of curses, then as he tried to climb into bed and found it had suddenly shrunk as well as that his pillow had suddenly turned into a sack of rocks. Ah. . . pure bliss.

#

I woke up – not to a tornado-alarm (saving that for _later_) – but to a surprisingly cheerful Dr. Watson whistling as he carried a tea-tray upstairs. I snatched a robe and hurried after him. The first thing we saw as we entered the sitting room was a glaring Mr. Holmes curled up on the sofa, snoring quietly. We exchanged a look that said we had succeeded in a job well done. "What do we do now?"

"Wake him up. Good morning, Mr. Holmes," I said as cheerfully annoying as I could manage. "How did you sleep last night?"

His eyes popped open, as red and bloodthirsty as a dragon's. With a growl, he grabbed for something, but I was running before I could see what. I escaped with my life as something hit the wall behind me with a _crash!_ Truth be told, I was giggling the entire way back to my room.


	10. Bonus: Out of Focus

**Out of the Woods**

**Out of Focus (An Out-take that really doesn't fit in anywhere.)**

"Ms. Phan, would you like to see something interesting?" Mr. Holmes asked as he donned a pair of gloves and safety glasses.

"Sure. What's with the pickle?"

He picked up the pickle carefully from its dish. "You'll see. This is a normal pickle."

"Okay."

"Nothing unusual about it."

"Yep."

"It's not rotten."

"Just sour."

"And it hasn't been tampered with."

"As far as I can tell."

"Good." He set the pickle down. Then he picked up a glass syringe and opened a transparent glass bottle labeled "HCl: Dangerous!" "This is Enhanced Hydrochloric Acid. If it gets on your skin, it will burn. If it gets in your eyes, you will go blind. Understand?"

"Understood. Taking two steps away from you."

"But you'll want to be close enough to see the reaction."

"Is it going to glow or something?"

Mr. Holmes filled the syringe with the deadly solution, careful not to spill it. Then, he picked up the pickle, slid the needle into its skin, and injected the solution. But the needle had gone too far.

"_AAAGH! Right in my eyes! I'm gonna die!!_"

But Holmes was laughing as he continued to spray the solution. "It's just water! Ms. Phan, come back here! I promise it's harmless!" It was hard to believe his words as he could barely get them out due to his laughter. "Come back!"

"I hate you!"


End file.
